


I’ve Seen ‘em on the TV, the Movie Show (They Say the Times are Changing but I Just Don’t Know)

by CitrusVanille



Series: Tell It to Me Slow (Maybe Someday We’ll Live Our Lives Out Loud) [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Semi-secret relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-19
Updated: 2009-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same-sex marriage was legalized in Massachusetts on May 17, 2004, that summer, Fall Out Boy was on Warped. These are facts. I watched <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pvo06QHolY0">this interview</a> and couldn't help myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ve Seen ‘em on the TV, the Movie Show (They Say the Times are Changing but I Just Don’t Know)

**Author's Note:**

> This is what comes of my watching old youtube videos when I'm in a mood to write fluff. Thanks to murderofonerose for being a wonderful beta.
> 
> I realize that blood tests were required in Massachusetts until January, 2005, so let’s just pretend that’s already been dealt with, shall we?
> 
> Part of Tell It to Me Slow (Maybe Someday We’ll Live Our Lives Out Loud) (a.k.a. the Someday ‘verse).

They hit Gillette Stadium in Foxboro, MA, at some ungodly hour of the morning after an all night drive from Buffalo. Patrick really, really just wants to sleep for a couple more hours until they have to be up for sound check, but Pete’s poking him awake and then dragging him out into the early morning sun, tugging on his arm, saying, “I got us a car, come on, come on.” And, since this is pretty much the only chance they have to do this right – to do this legally – Patrick goes, and doesn’t bitch much, and tries his hardest to hide his yawns.

Pete pulls him towards an old, tinny-blue Honda parked out on the edge of the lot. Patrick doesn’t even ask who it belongs to, just curls up in the passenger seat and tries to ignore the way his heart has started beating way too fast in his chest. He stares out the window at the highway, wishes the scenery were more riveting, more distracting, and keeps sneaking glances over at Pete, who is talking a mile a minute about – Pop-Tarts? Pop-Tarts. The superiority of frosted over non-frosted and why the sprinkles make all the difference.

Babbling, Patrick’s brain supplies, Pete is babbling. Patrick thinks maybe that means he’s not the only one trying not to freak out. It’s oddly comforting.

The ride’s only about ten minutes, which is simultaneously way too short and far too long. Patrick can’t seem to decide if he wants to be there now, do this now, now, _now_ , or if he needs another five to ten years to get his lungs working properly again, because he’s not breathing right, and maybe he ought to see a doctor about that, because not only are respiratory problems dangerous, but he needs to be able to breathe to sing, and they have a show tonight.

Then Pete’s parking the car at a meter that’s miraculously free right outside – which is maybe a sign, though Patrick thinks a longer walk might be a good thing just now – and they’re climbing the broad stone steps and walking into the town hall. Patrick’s head feels kind of light, and he’s not entirely sure he’s not going to end up walking into a wall or something, because he’s not really controlling his body’s movements, just sort of floating along. He can’t decide if he wants to jump up and down or panic, so maybe it’s a good thing that he feels like he’s watching himself move rather than having any kind of physical command of himself.

Pete’s hand settles low on Patrick’s back, under his hoodie, and Patrick can feel the heat of his palm through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. It grounds him, a little bit, and Patrick lets the gentle pressure steer him through the big double doors and around the people milling about, keep him from actually walking into anyone.

They ask a security guard for directions, and he gives them a strange look, but points them in the right direction. Patrick’s pretty sure the look is mostly because of their end-of-tour clothes – and spares a moment to wish they’d had time to do laundry the day before, or that he’d thought to do more than pull jeans on over the clothes he’d slept in – but he also knows he doesn’t look his age, and right now he really, really wishes he did.

Pete grins wide in thanks at the guard, releases Patrick long enough to shake the guy’s hand enthusiastically like he just can’t help himself, then twists his fingers into the sleeve of Patrick’s hoodie, fingertips hot points of connection against the skin of Patrick’s wrist.

“Come on, come on,” Pete says. He looks equal parts ecstatic and terrified. Patrick wonders if he looks the same, thinks he probably does.

There’s almost no line this early in the morning, just a handful of people ahead of them who must have shown up the moment the doors opened at 8:30. One woman frowns at them, but no one else pays them any attention, too wrapped up in themselves. Patrick twists his wrist until he can thread his fingers firmly through Pete’s and juts out his chin, staring the woman down until she looks away.

“That’s my Rickster,” Pete breathes against Patrick’s ear, pressing close.

Patrick’s a little surprised Pete doesn’t say anything to the woman, doesn’t try to start something, but he’s mostly relieved, doesn’t want anything to go wrong today, thinks Pete gets that, feels that, too. He tightens his grip on Pete’s hand and presses back, thinks, _Soon, soon,_ and feels light and half-giddy, like he’s floating, or dreaming. The urge to panic suddenly seems far away.

Less than an hour later they’re standing outside again, the midmorning sun bright and already hot overhead, the sidewalk already baking under their feet. It’s so fucking surreal.

Patrick stares at the paper in his hand, at his signature next to Pete’s. He isn’t sure he remembers actually writing it. He can’t remember holding the pen, or pressing the tip to the heavy paper and scratching out his name – just sort of remembers seeing himself do it, watching his hand move the same way he’d watched Pete’s. And yet. And yet there it is, bold black scrawl, and he put it there. He wrote his name next to Pete’s and it’s _legally binding_. _Holy fucking shit._

“Holy fucking shit,” he says, and the words come out so much calmer than he feels. He looks at Pete, who’s got a somewhat dazed expression on his face. “Holy fucking shit,” Patrick says again, and this time it sounds more like it should, raspy and slightly off-pitch like he’s just finished the best show ever and still isn’t completely sure he’s not going to explode into a million pieces with the rush. He shakes the paper a little bit in Pete’s general direction, just in case he doesn’t get it.

But Pete’s already fucking beaming at him. “I know, right?” he says, voice catching, and lets out a whoop loud enough to make the few other people loitering around the town hall stare at them.

“Holy fucking shit,” Patrick says a third time, louder, can’t help it, is only half sure he even believes this is real. Then he’s choking on a startled scream as Pete wraps his arms around his middle, picking him up, feet off the pavement, and swings him in a circle. Patrick flails for a split second, then grabs onto the back of Pete’s t-shirt, hands fisting in the material, hanging on.

“Holy fucking shit,” Pete agrees, voice breathless and awed, setting Patrick down again, but not letting go. He buries his face in Patrick’s neck, says, “Fuck, I love you so much,” words muffled against Patrick’s skin.

Patrick sifts his fingers through Pete’s hair, then tugs, pulling Pete’s head far enough back that he can meet his eyes. “Me too,” he says, and pulls Pete in to kiss him firmly on the mouth, right there on the sidewalk. He pulls away a moment later, says again, “Me too.” And then, “We have to get back,” because they do, because they have sound check, because they have a job, because they can’t spend all day standing wrapped around each other in front of Foxboro’s town hall, clutching a marriage license.

Pete’s still got the most ridiculous grin on his face when they get back to the stadium, but Patrick can feel the way his own cheeks are starting to ache, so he’s really not one to talk. Joe’s still asleep, but Andy gives them a suspicious look and asks what they’ve been up to.

“Made an honest woman of Patrick,” Pete says, still showing off way too many teeth. Patrick just makes a noise (that hopefully sounds more like agreement than an embarrassed squeak, though he doesn’t have a lot of faith in that) and ducks his head, hopes his hat hides the way he can feel his face heating up, and the way he’s still grinning, himself.

“You better not have done anything to my drums,” Andy says, and Patrick can _hear_ the eye roll. It’s not disbelief, exactly, it’s just the way Andy normally responds to Pete’s more outrageous statements.

For a moment Patrick wants to say, “No, really – well, not the woman part, but the rest of it.” Only he doesn’t, realizes he doesn’t care what Andy thinks about this, and Pete just laughs, not concerned at all, just purely happy – which is what really matters.

Andy rolls his eyes again, then wanders away to find breakfast, still looking vaguely suspicious. Patrick would put money on Andy checking his kit before getting food.

Pete links his fingers with Patrick’s as Andy vanishes around a row of buses. “It’s for us, anyway,” he says, voice soft and serious. “Who cares if anyone believes it?”

Patrick says, “As long as you do,” and only laughs when Pete picks him up and spins him around again.  



End file.
